


My Chemical Romance

by mizjoelywhofics



Category: Doctor Who
Genre: Classic Who, F/M, Shameless Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-29
Updated: 2019-03-29
Packaged: 2019-12-26 07:55:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18279026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mizjoelywhofics/pseuds/mizjoelywhofics
Summary: Much to Turlough's disgust, Tegan and the Doctor are fighting again. So what else is new? A session in the spa answers that question quite spectacularly.(Originally posted in 2013 on ff. net as "A Matter of Chemistry")





	1. Genie in a Bottle

**Author's Note:**

> Hi there, this is mizjoely posting non-sherlolly/bbc sherlock stuff under a different name so I my sherlolly fans don't have to have their inboxes cluttered up.

**Turlough**

"What is the Doctor's  _problem_?!"

Turlough doesn't bother answering what is clearly a rhetorical question as Tegan continues to rage around the ancillary library, slamming the handful of books she's snatched from his arms onto the table. He's been re-shelving titles the three TARDIS travelers have left scattered about and doesn't appreciate Tegan interrupting him in order to have a temper tantrum.

She'd wrested the books away from when he'd tried to ignore her angry entrance into the overcrowded room, but Tegan is no good at allowing herself to be ignored, and even though they've settled into a kind of wary friendship, or at least armed truce, the last few months, there are times when she still treats him like she still consider him a brat.

Times such as this.

"Why can't we just have a civilized dinner like anyone else without him doing his best to drive me insane?"

Ah, so it is the Doctor's clipped, sarcastic and yes, downright mean comments at dinner that have her back up this time.

Not that he can blame her; he still feels a bit put out at the Doctor himself, having been the target of some of those sarcastic, mean comments, although definitely not the main target. No, that dubious honor belongs Tegan, there's no doubt about that.

Of course, Tegan seems to have the unerring ability to crawl under the Doctor's skin and lodge herself there like a tick, so perhaps she shouldn't be complaining when he does the same to her.

Come to think of it, no one else seems to get under the Doctor's skin like she does; certainly not himself, not even back in the bad old days when he'd been the Black Guardians unwilling would-be assassin. Nor had Nyssa before she trotted off to help the plague-ridden at the side of a giant, two-legged rat.

That thought gives him an inkling as to the cause of the Doctor's disgruntlement and he opens his mouth without thinking and blurts out his opinion to Tegan. "I expect he's still upset about Nyssa leaving."

Tegan has finished her initial rant and plopped down into one of the room's three overstuffed lounge chairs, arms crossed over her chest, eyes fixed moodily on the cheerful blaze in the fireplace as if its mere presence is a deliberate affront. After the words leave his mouth, she moves her head, tilting it to one side as she gives him a withering look. "Oh, really? I hadn't noticed."

Oops. He's spoken of Nyssa's leaving a bit too casually for Tegan, who obviously misses her friend as much as – if not more than – the Doctor.

Still, if she misses Nyssa, then why doesn't it occur to her that the Doctor must as well? "We all miss her," he tries again, but Tegan doesn't appear in the mood for sympathy or even an explanation for the Doctor's unfriendly behavior at dinner.

She practically launches herself out of the chair, spitting something at him about how the only person he could ever miss would be himself, then storms out of the room in as great a huff as she'd first entered it.

He stares after her for a moment, then sighs and returns to re-shelving the books. Nyssa is gone, of her own free will. She's found her calling in life, her passion, so why are the others still so bloody upset about it? People leave; the TARDIS is more like a hotel than a permanent residence for anyone but the Doctor. Tegan herself left once before, after spending her entire first voyage on board the TARDIS caterwauling to be brought home from what he's gathered, so why all the drama now?

With a mental shrug, Turlough puts the entire unpleasant incident from his mind. The Doctor is out of sorts, Tegan is out of sorts, and he just wants to stay far away from both of them until they've, well, sorted themselves out.

**The Doctor**

This can't continue. The Doctor paces the Console Room, hands clasped behind his back. His coat is hung neatly on the coat rack that stands unobtrusively off in the corner, and he pulls off his jumper and tosses over the top of the coat, feeling cross and hot and definitely out of sorts.

All because of one Tegan Jovanaka.

What is it about her, why does she continually seem to rub him the wrong way, and he, her? Oh, she is much less angry this go round, having invited herself back on board the TARDIS without so much as doing him the courtesy of asking if it would be acceptable, but Nyssa had been so pleased to have her friend back that he found he had no objections to offer.

But she hadn't asked. She'd assumed, breezed back on board, no longer the semi-traumatized, hysterical young air hostess who'd been virtually hijacked by his TARDIS because of the Master's machinations. Since then, he admits, she's been much easier to get along with, so much happier, and her first few months back have actually been…rather pleasant, although she makes him uneasy just by being near him, and he still can't put his finger on why, exactly, that is.

It was easy to ignore while Nyssa was still on board, acting as something of a buffer between them, keeping the friction to a minimum with her soothing personality. Even after Turlough joined them, Tegan had been bearable, although her suspicions and dislike of the boy were grating.

The fact that she'd been proven correct hadn't helped, either. But that's all sorted now; she and Turlough mostly exist in a state of truce, things have settled into a new routine, a new dynamic…and then Nyssa had to go and spoil it by leaving.

Not that he blames her. She'd been at loose ends since Adric died, grasping for some larger purpose to her life after all the loss she'd sustained even before that – loss of home planet and family and the constant, grating reminder of the Master running about wearing her father's body like a borrowed suit. Her leaving is actually a good thing, good for her, anyway, he can admit when feeling charitable. She needs people to look after, a place to live out her life and feel some sort of stability, and she's found it on that plague ship.

And now they are all feeling her loss.

Well, he and Tegan are; Turlough wasn't nearly as close to her as they were and consequently isn't missing her as much.

Not that the Doctor is in the habit of admitting to missing anyone who leaves his ship to go off on their own. Adric had claimed he wanted to do the same thing just before he died; said he'd wanted to go home to E-Space.

And then Nyssa and Tegan had both informed him, on separate occasions and for separate reasons – sympathy and accusation, respectively – that the boy had admitted to wanting to do the calculations to bring him home only as an academic exercise. That he'd intended to stay, was just feeling left out and ignored and didn't really want to leave.

Not that it mattered. One way or the other, he is gone.

One way or the other, they all leave him eventually.

He makes a disgusted sound; why in Rassilon's name are his thoughts turning so maudlin? He must be getting old. There is nothing for it; he decides he needs a nice, relaxing session in the TARDIS spa. Time to himself, time away from the others, allowing them some time away from him as well, since he knows very well who was the instigator of the row at the dinner table, a row which Turlough had kept himself mostly out of by shoveling food in his mouth and bolting as quickly as possible after chewing and swallowing his last bite.

Not that he plans to apologize or admit fault, certainly not to Tegan. She drives him insane and since he can no longer entirely blame it on her poor attitude, he must try to root out the cause of his unease around her, the vague sensation of having a constant itch that cannot be scratched or even properly identified.

To the spa, then.

**Tegan**

After pacing the corridors a bit, trying to work off her restless irritation, Tegan finds herself in the TARDIS spa room. She almost backs out, then changes her mind. A good soak will be lovely, she decides. She so rarely gets time to herself these days, and if one of the others shows she'll tell them to sod off. Not that Turlough would even consider making use of such an unhygienic thing as a communal hot tub, fastidious little snot that he is, so it's really only the Doctor who might show up. But it's highly unlikely and she dismisses the possibility from her mind.

She checks out the adjoining changing room and finds a single woman's bikini hanging on a hook alongside a pair of white dressing gowns and some colorful men's swim trunks. She shrugs; nothing wrong with a bikini, although she generally prefers a one-piece. Still, it isn't worth trudging to the wardrobe room and back again, not when she is already here, and not when the bikini looks like it will fit her perfectly.

Which it does.  _How does the TARDIS know?_  she wonders, not for the first time. If it is actually reading her mind she would think it would be able to provide her with the type of swimsuit she actually prefers. Since that isn't the case, she supposes it just has her measurements stored somewhere. How else to explain the number of outfits she finds in the wardrobe room that fit her perfectly whenever she's in the mood to try out new clothes?

"At least someone on this bucket pays attention to how I look," she grumbles to herself as she strips off her clothing, kicking it aside in a heap in the corner, where it comes to rest half-hidden beneath the bench built into the side wall of the small room. Laundry is never an issue on the TARDIS; take off your dirty things, pile them up or leave them lying, and the next day they appear in your dresser or hanging on the rack, neat and clean and freshly pressed.

All part of the friendly service.

Too bad the owner isn't as eager to please as his time machine…

Tegan cuts that thought off sharply. The Doctor has made it quite clear on more than one occasion by his complete lack of reaction to the sight of her legs or chest or entire self clad in a gorgeous Edwardian gown that he has nil interest in her body.

And why should he? She's little more than a pet to him at best, barely sentient, a yappy dog running round his trouser leg and jumping up on him to get his attention…

With an exclamation of disgust she puts that image firmly out of her mind. The Doctor doesn't think of her as a pet, annoying or otherwise; he thinks of her as a friend, a comrade in arms, nothing less…and certainly nothing more.

Which, of course, is the problem.  _Her_  problem, not his. It's part of the reason she tweaks him as much as she does; if she can't get his attention the way she wants it, the way she  _craves_  it, she can at least make sure he can never forget she's around.

And when he tweaks her back, it's strictly out of irritation, like tonight. Oh, sure, she'd acted like she didn't know why he was so twisted up at dinner, had tried to distract herself by going out of her way to annoy Turlough, but in the end, it all comes down to one thing: Nyssa is gone, and he isn't going to admit to missing her any more than he would admit to missing Adric after he was…no longer with them.

_No, say it, Tegan. After he_ died _. You're not allowed to smooth over it, not even after all this time. Not even inside your own head._

Which she needs desperately to get out of before it explodes. She ties the bottom strings of the bikini top around her back, then lifts the two triangles of vibrant blue fabric up and over her breasts, ducking her head a bit in order to reach behind her neck to the tie the top part. Then she steps into the bottoms, surveying herself in mirror – everything on straight, good – and nods. The only thing left to do is grab a towel and go for a nice, long soak.

And try for God's sake to forget about how much you want him…


	2. Breaking the Ice

**The Doctor**

The Doctor strides into the spa dressing room, snatches at the first pair of trunks he puts his hands on — navy blue with a vibrant blue stripe down each side — and shimmies out of his clothing. He quickly dons the trunks and leaves, never noticing the other pile of clothes beneath the bench.

He grabs a towel from the rack outside the entrance, still in an ill humor, slings it over his shoulder and makes his way into the spa room.

And stops short in the doorway, transfixed by the sight of Tegan lounging in the sunken pool of bubbling water, head and arms resting on the edge.

Topless.

He forces his eyes to shift away from her magnificent, half-submerged bosom, taking in the previously unnoted detail of her discarded, still-damp top lying on the floor just past the outstretched fingers of her left hand.

He should leave. He should just back out of the room, grab his clothes and leave. But he can't. His feet feel as if they have rooted themselves to the TARDIS floor, all smooth tiling here in the spa room. At the very least he should turn his eyes away, but he can't do that, either. They've crept back to take in the sight of Tegan's lovely, half-naked form, the expression of content on her face, the relaxed pose of her arms.

Why, if she wants to bathe topless, hasn't she bothered to lock the door? Anyone can walk in, as he has done. What if it had been Turlough…

No, not Turlough. Turlough avoids the spa room, can't stand the idea of soaking in a pool of bubbling water meant for the use of multiple people, finds it disgusting and has said so on more than one occasion.

So Tegan knows herself safe from Turlough's accidental incursion. But why doesn't she concern herself about  _him_? She knows he occasionally uses the spa when he wants to relax, when they've had a particularly vigorous series of runs up and down alien corridors or when he's been fiddling the console and his back protests lying on the floor for hours on end.

He's done neither of these things today, a day spent inside the TARDIS doing research in his private library. Researching…something. Something that currently escapes him. So perhaps she just assumes she will be left in peace.

He needs to leave. Her chest heaves with a satisfied sigh, and his mouth goes dry and suddenly his bathing costume is uncomfortably tight in the groin area and he realizes, finally, exactly why Tegan makes him so crazy.

She chooses that moment to open her eyes and discover him standing there, towel in hand, staring at her.

She makes an abortive movement with her hands, as if instinct causes her to try to cover herself, but slowly returns her arms to their previous relaxed pose. Her eyes, however, are wary and watchful, glittering with another emotion he doesn't allow himself to recognize at first.

_Hunger._

She doesn't scream at him to get out. She doesn't sink under the water or turn red with embarrassment. She simply looks at him, although the welter of emotions in her eyes as they meet his is far from simple.

Her teeth nibble at her lower lip, and then she seems to come to a decision as she moves those lips into an inviting smile.

Then she deliberately lowers her eyes, studying him from head to toes, lingering on his mid-section – no, be honest, on the section right below that – and her smile grows and turns approving.

When she speaks, her voice is husky and inviting with just the slightest hint of uncertainty. "Join me?"

He shouldn't. He knows he shouldn't. He's finally realized everything he's been repressing and denying to himself, the reaction he's had to her from the very beginning of this regeneration, and he knows it's a bad idea for more reasons than he can possibly list. He is responsible for her. Their contentious friendship could be ruined. He is a Time Lord and supposed to be above such base considerations as sex.

But his hand reaches back to shove the door closed behind him and his feet have become unstuck and are marching themselves over to the spa. His legs are carrying him down the shallow steps opposite Tegan's still-smiling form, and his eyes are now glued to her lips. They are full and red and quite luscious and obviously in dire need of a kiss to discipline them back into being just another feature of her face.

He obliges them, seating himself next to Tegan and slanting his mouth against hers. Her mouth opens beneath his, inviting further exploration, and his tongue joins the rebellion of body against mind and slips in to tangle with hers as the kiss deepens.

It is an incredible feeling, not just the kiss but the way her bare chest is pressed against his, skin meeting skin, so sensuous and inviting he can't believe he's spent so much time ignoring the signals his frustrated body has been trying to send to his brain.

When Tegan reaches down and brushes her fingertips across the fabric stretched and distorted by the shape of his erection, he groans against her lips and pulls his face away from hers, embarrassed by his reaction.

But he moves no further than that and does nothing to stop her tentative exploration.

His hands lie passive by his side, although he feels a growing urge to touch her as she is touching him. But it has been many, many years – decades, centuries – since he has done anything like this, anything carnal, and he is surprisingly nervous at the thought of doing something wrong, of making Tegan uncomfortable or scaring her off and so finds himself frozen into immobility.

The increasing boldness of her movements thaws the ice. The warmth of her touch is evident even through the heated caress of the water against his body, the way her fingers stroke his thickening hardness from base to top and back again…

With another groan he leans forward and begins pressing feverish kisses to her neck, tongue dipping into the intriguing hollows he finds at the junction of throat and body. His hands reach up to grasp her arms and pull her to him with more roughness than he intends, but she merely moans and slides her own arms around his shoulders, pressing him closer before tugging his face up to meet hers for another encounter with those wicked lips and that talented tongue of hers.

One hand buries itself in her hair, the other sliding down her back to rest against the curve of her buttocks. She is still wearing the bottom half of the bikini, but he knows it won't be long before they will both be naked. The image of her astride his lap, his heated shaft pressing into her hot, wet center flashes across his mind so clearly it's as if he can actually see it happening.

The kiss ends only when they mutually pull away from lack of breath, and he rests his forehead against hers, panting. She turns her head to nibble delicately at his earlobe; he hisses in pleasure and suddenly the urge to make his vision a reality is impossible to ignore.

He's been a fool, denying them what they both want, and now that he's decided to do this he will brook no further delays.

**Tegan**

Tegan can hardly believe her eyes when she opens them to see the Doctor standing in the doorway, a towel in one hand, body frozen, eyes wide with either shock or, fingers crossed, desire.

She is not sure which interpretation to put on it. Her first instinct is that he is embarrassed by her display and so she starts to cover herself, but then she flicks her gaze downward and her own eyes widen as she realizes that his loose bathing trunks aren't quite loose enough to cover up his physical reaction to the sight of her naked breasts and, let's face it, inviting posture.

She sinks back, deliberately spreading her arms again so he can get a good, long look while she permits herself the same – a head to toe perusal that ends up focused on the spot where her first peek had initially settled.

She asks him to join her, unsure of his response even though it is quite clear that this time his body appears to be in control. If his intellect wakes up and takes over again, this will end as abruptly as it seems to be starting; if he reins in his hormones or whatever pass for hormones in a Time Lord, she doubts he will ever allow them to take control again.

Especially not around her.

So she waits, breath held, heart pounding in anticipation, barely able to control her pleased surprise when he starts moving – directly toward her. She watches as he steps into the spa and seats himself next to her and then, oh! He is kissing her, allowing the kiss to deepen and if he's never done this before then he is naturally talented and should seriously consider taking up snogging as a career path.

Their chests are mashed together, her nipples hardened and pebbled from the contact, and she can't help herself. She reaches down and brushes her fingers against the Doctor's cock – ohmygod, a part of her mind gabbles; the Doctor really does have a cock and it's hard and getting harder and all because of you – loving the sound he makes as he groans against her mouth.

She does not, however, love the way he instantly pulls back, looking somewhat embarrassed. She hopes it is because of his own reaction and not because he wants her to stop – no, he makes no other move, doesn't haul himself up out of the hot, bubbling water, just sits there, looking at her, letting her continue to touch him, to stroke him through the silky fabric of his trunks.

She grasps his erection more firmly and he lets out another groan, leaning forward to press his lips and tongue to her throat and collarbone. Then they are kissing again and their bodies are entwined and she never wants this moment to end, never, ever, ever.

It does, of course, but only to allow another moment to happen, the moment when she nips her teeth into his earlobe and he lets out a hiss of breath and the hands that have been roving her body suddenly become far more businesslike, brusque, almost.

He is hooking his fingers into the edge of her bikini bottom, tugging it impatiently down over her bum and thighs until suddenly it is gone and she is completely naked.

His mouth fastens on her neck again, sucking and licking, nipping lightly with those perfect white teeth, and she puts her hands to work, pulling at the waistband of his trunks, stripping him as he has stripped her.

He shifts his bum, lifting it off the low bench that circles the spa to make it easier for her to pull the trunks down to his thighs and from there over his knees and around his ankles. He kicks them off and tosses them up onto the floor when they float back up to the water's surface.

By then his lips have found their way to her breasts. She squirms under his touch, a moan escaping her own lips as she starts to push herself up onto her knees so he won't have to worry about swallowing any of the chlorinated water.

She squeals in surprise as he suddenly yanks her onto his lap so she is straddling him, the tip of his erection pressing up against her belly, the length of it nestled against her center. He uses his hands to slide her up and down in a highly suggestive manner while his lips busy themselves with her breasts, sucking eagerly at each nipple in turn.

They pebble and harden even more as delighted groans and squeaks of pleasure force themselves out of her mouth. She steadies herself with one hand on his shoulder, the other reaching down between them to stroke his cock. It needs no further encouragement, but her mother taught her to seize the day – although Tegan doubts this is how she meant that lesson to be applied.

Then again, judging by the frequency with which her parents took "naps" together after shooing Tegan and her brothers out of the house to "get some fresh air", perhaps she would approve.

Blushing slightly at the direction her thoughts have wandered (who thinks about their parents at a time like this?), she wiggles her hips and is rewarded by another moan from the Doctor, shivering against the nipple he is currently exploring with his clever tongue.

The thought of what else he might be willing to do with that tongue nearly pulls the breath from her lungs.

Before she can even try to work out a way to suggest such a thing, his hands have lifted her up again, but not just to tease her by rubbing her against his straining cock. No, this time he means business.

She is about to protest that he's rushing things when she sees the glazed look in his eyes, the fierce sweat breaking out on his forehead, the flush in his cheeks, and decides to save her thought for another time.

Because as sure as there are rabbits in Australia, there is going to be another time.

For now, she will let him have his way.

Not that she objects. Oh, no, by no means could she be said to object. A shiver passes over her frame as she feels the tip of his cock pressing against her opening, and she squirms in his hold, gasping with pleasure as he slams himself up inside her, hips thrusting with aggressive movements she is eager to match.

She rides him hard, feeling the pleasure mount with every thrust of his hips, hands digging into his shoulders as he buries his face in the juncture of neck and collarbone, lips and teeth doing their level best to help drive her over the edge of the precipice she is rapidly approaching.

Then he does the unthinkable: his hands, which have been grasping her hips as hard as hers have his shoulders, tighten further, forcing her to stop, holding her in place while he pulls his face back in order to meet her startled, frustrated eyes.

"What?" she manages to gasp out. "What's wrong? Why did you stop?"


	3. What's Love Got

**The Doctor**

"Why did you stop?"

The Doctor isn't sure he can answer that question. Not because he doesn't know the reason, but because he is literally gasping for air, never mind his superior physiology. Tegan has just been demonstrating her own physical fitness and even though he isn't ready to climax he does feel as if he has just run down a thousand miles of corridor with the Daleks in hot pursuit.

In short, he is overwhelmed, and he is definitely not used to feeling this way.

Then again, he is also far from used to the feel of a naked woman enveloping his cock as she sits astride his lap and bounces and wiggles and makes enthusiastic noises while her hands dig into his shoulders with unexpected strength.

When he finally has the breath to speak, he answers her question with a question of his own. "What are we doing?"

She gives him a  _look_ , and he knows it's a stupid question, but he has to hear her answer. So he waits.

Finally she sighs and rolls her eyes before looking at him again. "Having sex," she bites off, wiggling her hips as best she can while he is holding her so firmly in place. Then she clenches her interior muscles and he feels his hands loosen their grip just the slightest bit at the pleasure such a simple muscle movement causes. But he refuses to give in, not just yet. Not until he's certain they both understand what is happening between them.

"And what," he says quietly, peering intently into her eyes so as not to miss a single nuance of her expression, "do you think will happen afterwards?"

She stills as the realization of what he is asking sinks in. Wide-eyed, she stares at him, her tongue darting out nervously to touch the corner of her lips. He really, really, wants to follow it back into her mouth with his own, but manages to control himself. Just.

"I suppose," she begins, sounding as nervous as she suddenly looks, "I suppose we…we just…go back to the way things were?" He can tell it is meant to be a statement but it comes out a tentative question instead.

"And how do you propose we do that?" he asks. "This," he nods down at their joined bodies, "changes things, doesn't it?"

"Does it have to?" she counters, and he feels an eyebrow lift in surprise. It isn't the answer he expects to hear.

A dimple appears in her cheek as she processes his surprise and responds to it with a small grin. "Look, Doc, I know you think I'm going to tell you I'm in love with you and expect some kind of, I dunno, romantic relationship with you from now on, but we both know that isn't how it works. It  _can't_  work that way, can it? You're a Time Lord and I'm a Human, I won't live even half as long as you already have."

"Spending time in the Vortex does slow down the Human aging process a bit," he feels constrained to point out, while part of his mind marvels that she is allowing him this discussion. Who stops to thrash out the details of their relationship in the middle of sex?

Well, he does, apparently. No matter how overwhelming his desire for this woman, he doesn't want to mislead her into thinking this is something more than it is, that they can be more than just a man and a woman giving into their body's demands.

Of course, that doesn't mean they won't give in to those demands again, but he wants to be sure she understands that's all it is, all it can ever be.

Because sooner or later, no matter how close he and his companions become, everyone leaves. She will leave him, find somebody to fall in love with or get unbearably homesick or find a higher purpose or simply get sick of him.

Or die, but he refuses to go there. The thought of a Universe without her vibrant, noisy, irritating, incredibly sexy presence doesn't bear thinking about.

While these thoughts flit through his mind, she is speaking again. "Fine, so I'll live a bit longer than people who stay on Earth. But I still won't live as long as you. I know," she says softly, reaching up to caress his face with one hand, "there's no happy ever after for us. But that doesn't mean we can't enjoy one another for as long as we do have together, right? As long as you promise not to stop doing…this…" another clench to emphasize her point, and his hands tighten and a muscle in his jaw contracts to indicate point taken, "with me, Doc, then I promise not to start acting like some lovesick teenager." She turns serious. "And if I do," she says, "you can feel free to plunk me back down on Earth in 1984 London." Her grin turns impish. "Heathrow, if you like. Deal?"

He returns her grin, pleased and relieved by her answer. "Deal," he says, leaning forward to seal their bargain with a kiss, tender at first, but met by a more demanding response as she opens her mouth beneath his and invites his tongue to enter – no,  _insists_  on it, her arms crossing behind his neck so she can pull his torso tightly against hers.

His hands finally slacken their grip enough for her to move again, although she takes her time, no longer riding his cock like some wild thing, instead wiggling and teasing and clenching those damned, incredibly tight interior muscles against him. His hands slide downward, clutching her bottom, raising her up and then suddenly slamming her back down so that she gasps in surprised pleasure, throwing her head back as he repeats the movement again and again.

His annoying mind satisfied, he now concentrates on doing the same for his body. The feel of Tegan's slick wetness encasing him is the only thing he wants to focus on, that and the way her breasts are pressing against his chest, the nipples taut and hard and feeling as if they are trying to bore their way inside his body in order pierce each of his racing hearts.

As if sensing his sudden, laser-sharp focus on what their bodies are doing – and really, why wouldn't she be able to sense it, since she is as intent on the act as he is? – Tegan begins pumping herself up and down on him with increasing urgency, letting out a series of guttural moans as she leans her head down and begins nipping and sucking at his throat the way he had been doing to her before allowing his cursed stupid intellect to get in the way.

He feels a pleasurable moan escape his lips at the sensation, his hands moving from her buttocks up her back to stroke their way to her shoulder blades and back down again.

This time when he interrupts her increasingly frantic movements, it isn't because his mind has decided to override his body, but a simple case of him suddenly wanting –  _needing_  – to demonstrate a bit of primitive male dominance.

In short, he wants to be on top of her, to feel her body beneath his as he slams into her, to see her face looking up at him as he brings her to the fulfillment he senses is very close for both of them.

Also, to prolong that moment as long as possible. He is impatient for orgasm, but not so impatient that he isn't willing to put it off just a little bit longer. There is something else he wants to do, an experiment he is aching to perform with tongue and lips and fingers and a certain portion of Tegan's anatomy…

He grins in what he knows is a predatory manner; her eyes widen and he sees she is about to object when he slows his movements for a second time. He is gratified to hear her whimper in protest as he encircles her waist with one arm and heaves her effortlessly out of the spa and lays her on the floor.

**Tegan**

_Not again!_  is Tegan's first, frantic thought as the Doctor abruptly stops moving, releasing his hold on her hips. What now? She opens her mouth to ask, but instead gasps in surprise when his arms encircle her waist and he lifts her up and out of the spa until suddenly she finds herself lying on the cool tile floor.

He continues to grin down at her, a wolfish grin, then licks his lips and rakes her body with his gaze. She sucks in a breath; had he somehow read her mind earlier? Because now he is moving with deliberate slowness down her body, kissing and licking and sucking various points – most notably her breasts – on his way to points south.

She moans as his tongue delves into her navel, swirling and teasing, and moans again as his mouth continues its downward journey, coming to rest in the hollow between her thigh and her absolutely soaking wet (by no means all from the waters of the spa) pussy. He licks her there in an experimental manner and she moans louder. "Cripes, Doc, don't just…you can't…" she manages to gasp out in protest.

She feels his lips move against her skin and suspects he is smirking; when she raises her head to glare down at him she is certain of it, just by the gleam in his impossibly blue eyes when they meet hers. Then he lowers his gaze and shifts his mouth to the left and her head thunks back onto the floor and her eyes squeeze shut as he finally starts giving proper attention to the most overheated part of her anatomy.

**The Doctor**

The Doctor is very, very pleased with himself. It has been a long time since he indulged the physical side of himself in this manner, but it is quite apparent he hasn't lost his touch. When he teases the opening to Tegan's sex with his tongue, her head drops back onto the floor and the noises coming from her throat are extremely gratifying.

He delves a bit deeper, spreading her apart with careful fingers as his tongue strokes the moist heat of her vulva. The noises she makes increase in both frequency and volume as he thrusts his tongue deep inside her, curling it at the tip before dragging it back out and probing more delicately at the sensitive bundle of nerves contained in her clitoris.

No, that's his intellect inserting itself again; now is the time for visceral reactions, not intellectual. Her nub, he corrects himself absently as he once again rakes his tongue over that particular feature of her anatomy. Her hidden pearl. Her clit.

He is rewarded by a sort of mewling cry that bursts from her lips as if rocket propelled, by the way her hips buck beneath his ministrations, by the growing moisture pooling and spreading beneath his fingers. While his tongue is busy investigating her most sensitive spot he inserts a single digit deep inside her and her cries increase. Good. He inserts a second finger, moving them rhythmically as he continues to lave her nub and is further rewarded as she bucks beneath him and virtually screams out his name, her hands scrabbling on the floor before one of them latches onto his hair, her fingers digging into his scalp as she mindlessly tries to force his face closer.

He allows the movement, reveling in the taste and feel and scent of her pussy as his tongue and fingers move with increasing swiftness. Her climax is near, she is about to come; there is a subtle change in taste and then nothing subtle about the way her hips lift off the floor, the way her body goes rigid and her fingers on his head dig in painfully hard.

Even less subtle is the full-throated scream that emerges from her throat. He spares a moment to hope that Turlough is far, far away from this part of the TARDIS, then allows his mind to completely turn itself off as he spends another few seconds milking Tegan for every ounce of satisfaction that he can before she becomes over stimulated and inevitably starts to pull his face and hand away from her.

He times his removal well; her fingers have just stopped pulling and started pushing when he removes his face from its very, very pleasurable resting place and allows her a moment's recovery time.

He studies her face as he does so, even more pleased by what he sees. Her eyes are clenched shut, her mouth twisted in an expression that could be interpreted as pain if one didn't know what has caused it to look the way it does. She is sweating and red and her arms are thrown limply over her head as her body spasms and shakes and otherwise recovers from what he smugly knows has been a shattering orgasm.

Which, he thinks with equal smugness as he lowers his body over hers and guides himself into her, will only be her first of the evening.

**Tegan**

Ohgodohgodohgodohgod…

His tongue, his lips…ohgodohgodohgod…where did he…who taught him…how did he  _know_ …

Nothing. No thoughts, no room for anything except primal, raw sensations as pleasure explodes through her body, the release she's been aching for and denied for far longer than simply the time it takes for him to haul her out of the spa and plant his face between her legs. She shudders, shakes, screams until her throat is raw, then collapses bonelessly onto the tile floor as her body shivers in the aftermath of an orgasm more powerful than any she's ever experienced in her life.

She opens her eyes when she feels the Doctor's body above hers, looks into his eyes and absently notes the smug smile plastered on his face as he lowers himself onto her and presses himself into her still-quivering opening.

She is about to protest that she's not ready, not recovered, but then he starts to move within her and the words are strangled beneath a guttural moan. His mouth descends, slashing over hers, his tongue and the taste of herself on his lips invading her mouth and her eyes close as she revels in the feel and taste and scent of their mingled flesh.

He moves slowly against her at first, as if unsure of how fast he can comfortably go, but instead of rubbing her raw it feels as if he is soothing away any lingering sensitivity from that cataclysmic orgasm.

She wants more, and she lets him know by thrusting her hips up to meet his with eager impatience, by running her fingers down his back and up again, raking him with her nails and nipping at his throat with her teeth as their frantic kiss ends because of their mutual need to breathe.

He hisses at her feverish, unspoken demands, thrusts into her with the same pounding fury he demonstrated in the spa. He is holding the bulk of his weight off her by resting on his elbows but she wants him closer, wants to feel him fully against her and tugs at him, impatient that he understand her need as he's so exquisitely demonstrated his ability to do so almost every step of the way along this erotic journey.

He complies without breaking the increasing rhythm of their hips and groins, gasps as she wraps her legs around his waist and tilts her hips to allow him deeper penetration. She feels his chest pressed against hers, revels in the sudden weight as his hands dig into her shoulders, shudders as his lips find her earlobe and give it the same attention she gave his earlier.

Every nip, every lick, wrings a moan from her. The moans increase into gasps as she feels herself spiraling, sprinting,  _racing_  toward a second climax. Impossible, she's not multi-orgasmic, never has been, but tonight, with this man, this Time Lord, she is, she is, she is…

She cries out as the wave overtakes her, a tsunami of sensation that overloads her mind and sends her reeling consciousness far, far away for an impossibly long moment. Then his body tenses and shakes and she dimly recognizes that he has come with her, that his seed is spilling into her, filling her, and a third climax shudders over her hard on the heels of the second at the dizzying realization that she has brought him to this state.

She, Tegan Jovanka, mere Human woman, has caused the high and mighty Time Lord to moan and sweat and shake above her, caused his eyes to glaze over as he climaxes. She feels a smug smile form on her lips and understands his own earlier smugness, although she believes her own is far, far more justified.

As he drops his head to her shoulder, gasping, as his body finally stills, she feels her smugness fading beneath a moment's panic; what next? Will he withdraw from her body and flee, mortified that he's allowed this to happen, that he's lost control so thoroughly and in such a base, Human way?

Will he try to let her down easily, apologize for taking advantage of her, promise – threaten – that it will never happen again?

No, of course not. They've already had that discussion, right in the middle of things, which was quite irritating at the time but now she is rather glad he took the time for them to hash things out before reaching such a mutually enjoyable conclusion to their activities.

As if once again reading her thoughts, he leans down and presses a gentle kiss to her lips. "We still have a deal, Tegan, do stop worrying about it. No stopping…this…" he squeezes her bottom to emphasize his point, "as long as you don't start acting like a lovesick teenager who needs to be let off at Heathrow. Remember?"

She nods, not trusting her voice. Because of course she knows that eventually she will start acting like a lovesick teenager, is already desperately in love with him, but has privately resolved that if –  _when_  – she does, he won't need to be the one to leave her behind.

Because she will make it quite clear that it's time for her to leave; she will shake his hand and give her best stiff upper lip and tell him good-bye without resorting to expressing an emotion she knows he will never be able to fully return.

Until that moment, however, which she secretly hopes is far, far in the future, she will live in  _this_  moment, enjoy being with him in whatever capacity he can manage.

And God, if the sex continues to be half as good as it has been tonight, she will be absolutely certain to make herself available for more as frequently as possible.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed this semi-angsty smutfest!

**Author's Note:**

> I don't usually do the "story soundtrack" thing, but in this case music pretty much drove the story. Tina Turner's "What's Love Got To Do With It?", Christina Aguilera's "Genie in a Bottle" and Britney Spears' "Break the Ice" were all running through my mind at various points during the writing of this.


End file.
